


Man's Best

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, Haiku, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:37:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one with the puppy-inspired inspirational haiku.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man's Best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amélie_Mochitalia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Am%C3%A9lie_Mochitalia).



> Oh God. I blame this _Jezebel_ -linked article my roommate sent me:
> 
> “Also, Tom Hardy could print a collection of puppy-inspired inspirational haikus and we'd buy it and jerk off to it.”  
> \--“Tom Hardy’s Old Myspace Is A Treasure Trove Of Sexy Pics, Myspace Drama,” _Fleshbot_

_Nothing would be lost,  
All would be forgiven, if  
Puppies ruled the world._

“Did you seriously,” said Arthur, horrified, staring at the front of Eames’s refrigerator, “write that haiku?”

Eames joined Arthur where he was standing with the forgotten orange juice carton in one hand, brought up short as he had been in his quest to replace it in the fridge by the sight of this poem on the refrigerator. Typed in comic sans. On a paper bordered by frolicking puppies. Held in place by a smiley face magnet. “Why?” Eames asked, all innocence. “Do you like it? I’ve got more.”

And that was how Arthur came to be sitting on Eames’s sofa, a scrapbook on his lap, turning page after page of nauseatingly sweet haiku. Occasionally he would look up and Eames would nod encouragingly across the coffee table.

They were horrifyingly sweet. Arthur had to turn off his brain somewhere between, “In a puddle of / puppy piss, no one can feel / truly disgusting,” and, “I have a puppy / named Arthur. He has the best / brown eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“You have an extra syllable here,” said Arthur.

“Poetic license,” said Eames. “That one’s dedicated to you.”

“No,” said Arthur. “That one’s _about me_. As a dog.”

“Poets routinely disguise their loved ones to increase marketability,” said Eames loftily.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” muttered Arthur, flipping to a page with puppy doodles all up and down the sides and a glaringly bold, “My schnauzer’s name is / Cobb. He has yet to find that / one pungent chew toy.” Arthur blinked.

“Like it?” Eames asked.

“Eames, I…” Arthur groped for words. How do you tell a guy you’ve been sort of seeing off and on for a couple months now that he’s a truly appalling and kind of creepy poet with an unhealthy interest in illustrating his coworker’s weaknesses in dog terms? How do you reconcile that knowledge with your previous sense of him as a kind and muscled sex god with wicked stubble and strangely affecting Briticisms?

Eames was beginning to look worried, and Arthur sighed. You sink to his level, that’s how. “I think I may have found my own pungent chew toy,” he said, shutting the scrapbook and leaning across the coffee table to pull Eames, by the shoulders, into a kiss.


End file.
